Chapter 5 Gavin
FIVE
GAVIN
She was a mess.
We both were—grime smudged into our skin, dirt streaked across our forearms like war paint. Her blonde hair clung to her cheeks in damp strands, the heat of the day catching on her flushed skin and leaving her glowing.
Still, she was the most beautiful goddamn thing I’d ever seen, and the only thing I could think about was her.
Sweat clung to the back of my neck. We’d been scrubbing and hauling and tossing ruined books into bins for hours. My lower back ached and my shoulders were tight with fatigue, but I didn’t care.
Because every time she bent over to pick something up, the hem of that too-short dress flirted with danger. Every time she brushed against me—her arm against mine, her hip sliding along my side in the tight spaces of the back room—I lit up like a fuse.
So when she wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, loose tendrils of hair falling across her face, and said, “You hungry?” in that soft, unassuming voice, I nearly groaned out loud.
Hungry? You have no damn idea, sweet girl.
“Do you want to come upstairs?” she asked. “I could order us something for dinner. I owe you. It’s the least I could do since you helped me with this mess all day.”
Upstairs again. Just her and me. Two nights in a row.
Not an accident. Not anymore.
I should’ve said no. Could’ve walked out, climbed into my truck, and driven home. Alone.
Instead, I said, “You know that little Thai place around the corner?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Yeah?”
“Let’s grab something and then drive down by the waterfront to eat.”
I didn’t give her time to think it through—didn’t want her to second-guess herself, or worse, me.
I tossed the last bag of trash into the bin, wiped my hands on my jeans, and said, “Come on.”
She hesitated just long enough for it to mean something. Just long enough for her body to ask the question her mouth wouldn’t. Then she nodded.
And I saw it—the flicker in her eyes.
Like she knew this was a bad idea, but wanted it anyway.
That made two of us.
After calling in a to-go order, we cleaned up as best we could in the tiny, still waterless bathroom in the back of the shop.
I splashed some cold bottled water on my face and ran a hand through my hair, watching the water drip from my jaw into the cracked porcelain sink. My shirt stuck to my chest.
When we stepped outside, the air was cooler, thick with the scent of late summer and the promise of rain later. The sun had dipped low enough to throw long golden shadows across the sidewalk.
We walked side by side toward the restaurant. Her shoulder brushed my arm once—twice—like she was testing it. Testing me.
The third time, I gave up pretending it was an accident. My hand slid to the small of her back. Not possessive. Just … there. Steady and warm.
She stiffened for a second, like she hadn’t expected it, then melted into the touch so easily it made my chest ache.
Like she liked me there.
Fuck.
I opened the restaurant door and let her step in ahead of me. Her dress still clung to the soft lines of her body, fabric slightly damp in places, and it took everything in me not to stare.
We walked to the takeout counter and were greeted by a young woman.
“Be right back with your order,” she stated after I gave her my name. She disappeared through the swinging kitchen doors with a smile.
Rose folded her arms loosely across her chest, leaning slightly against the counter. Her damp hair was starting to dry in soft waves. A little frizz had started near her temples. She looked natural. Unfiltered.
Like home.
Where the hell did that thought come from?
“Here you go! You and your daughter enjoy, and have a great night,” the woman sneered with one raised eyebrow.
The words hit like a freight train.
My vision tunneled.
My daughter?
I didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. My jaw locked tight as I signed the receipt. Left a tip large enough to shut down the sting burning through my chest.
I grabbed the takeout bag, thanked her through gritted teeth, and ushered Rose out before either of us could combust.
The second we hit the sidewalk, the silence grew sharp. It wrapped around us. She didn’t speak and neither did I.
I glanced down and saw her lips pressed tight, eyes on the pavement like it could offer her answers.
Was she embarrassed? Hurt? Wondering if this was a mistake?
She was quiet because she knew that the woman didn't really think that I was her dad.
I was quiet for the same damn reason. I was pissed.
Because that girl saw something between us. Something real. Something wrong.
And Rose—my Rose—didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh it off.
She was thinking. Measuring it. Running her fingers along the edge of what we were stepping into and probably asking herself: Can I live with this?
And if it did bother her that someone could mistake us for something we weren't … it meant her thoughts weren’t innocent, either.
I looked down at her again—noticing the heat in her cheeks and the way her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her purse like she didn’t know what to do with them—and realized something deep and undeniable.
This girl wasn’t a delicate flower.
She was a wildfire waiting for a match.
And fuck me—I wanted us to burn.